The Night I Became a Stripper in Spain

Right after graduating from university I went to visit a friend in Madrid, Spain for three weeks. He had a cosy studio with some pleasant neighbours who would often come hang out with us. One day, a girlfriend of theirs was getting married so they organised a bachelorette party in their flat a few floors below.



Someone came up with the idea of pranking the new bride by bringing a fake stripper... or escort. For some reason or the other they offered me the role. In one way, 23-year-old me was quite chuffed they chose him; not knowing what to expect brought about those fuzzy butterfly feelings. In another, I thought what the hell: If they think I can do it then I probably can.


I showered, got ready ― even trimmed the goatee ― and had a couple of frozen vodka shots to get in the mood. Remember: Do what would makes the better story. This is the motto I always keep in mind to pump myself up before getting into risqué or daring situations.

The thing is, once I had agreed to do this, there was no turning back. I knew I couldn’t screw up. I couldn’t, for instance, just burst into laughter ― or tears ― while performing. The bride, her bridesmaids, their little bachelorette party, it was my responsibility as a male stripper to make it work. I’m not a halfhearted kind of guy, you see.

If I were to be convincing I needed to be convinced. If you ask anyone in the field they will say that your personality is (almost) as important as your looks. “Sexy” is mainly a state of mind. I still trimmed my goatee, though. This was sincere dedication.

As a storyteller, however, any action would suffice. You just need to dive into it head-first and let it roll. 

So I took a deep breath, opened the door, and went down the stairs.

I recall there was some synchronisation going on. One of the girls came out all quietly, got back in, turned the electronic music on pretty loud, and then back to me.

“Ready?” She asked.

“Tonight is the night I’m living my fantasy. Let’s get it on, baby.” While I think I looked the part, my heart was racing like a hummingbird’s. After all, I had absolutely no experience in stripping. Let us say public stripping.

While the music began pumping, I went into the flat to be lead to the sitting area. There, I could see five or six women in their mid-twenties sitting around a table with drinks and various colourful dildos and vibrators. Without much thinking ― or even hellos or proper introduction ― I began dancing to the music, slowly unbuttoning my black shirt. My main focus was the bride because that’s how it should be. So I kept eye contact, giving her seductive Zoolander looks, yet not too much as it could turn creepy. Her friends, too, needed some attention. Or so it is supposed to be were they not part of the prank.  



A couple of minutes through the striptease, our bride got up and started sexy dancing with me. And then soon after, something which I hadn’t considered came to mind. Now what?

Now the bride was fully believing the act and seemed to be enjoying her time around me. Though I wasn’t sure what the girlfriends had planned, because no one discussed how the night was going to end. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if I was there as a stripper or a full escort or something else. Hm, what? I never thought I would write such a sentence, and mean it. Let alone publishing it on the World Wide Web. But hey, someone’s got to do it. Let me just use the bold font, so no one misses it.  

It seems probable that the bridesmaids may have left the ending open. They were all lighthearted and had fun personalities. So letting the experience roll as it may is not that strange. Still, though, I didn’t know how far would be too far. I mean, what if something happens then she finds out I’m a fake hooker so she gets mad that I’m not dirty enough ― ruining the bachelorette party in the process.

Oh well, we kept playing around for maybe half an hour before we broke it to her. I then took off my... stripper’s persona and stayed for drinks.

If you got this far and find the ending to be anticlimactic, or feel cheated, let me tell you that a good title can captivate your eyes and make you start reading. But only decent storytelling can keep you interested until reaching this very last sentence.

Not Sleeping With a French Hooker at 14 is another similar article based on another true story, also taking place abroad.
 

For the debauched in you ― yes, I know you exist ― to view the indecent and much more spicy stuff, check the 17 articles from the Memoirs of an Incognito Friend series. Starting with The Italian Belly Dancer from 2015 up until the more recent The Woman Who Came Again — 24 Years Later.

Over and Out.


* The featured photo up above was taken before a Santana concert we attended on that same trip to Spain ― 2000

Inamorato in Madrid, April 2000

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